


on love

by glambus



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Welcome to the Madness (Yuri!!! on Ice)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 04:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10654467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glambus/pseuds/glambus
Summary: There are two hours between the gala exhibition and the banquet, and since even Yuri Plisetsky doesn’t take two hours to tie a Windsor knot, Yakov seizes the opportunity to plant his feet in Yuri’s doorway and deliver the lecture that’s been rattling against his skull for too long now.“...Fifteen years old…  indecent exposure…”(in which Yakov and Lilia temporarily succumb to the madness)





	on love

There are two hours between the gala exhibition and the banquet, and since even Yuri Plisetsky doesn’t take two hours to tie a Windsor knot, Yakov seizes the opportunity to plant his feet in Yuri’s doorway and deliver the lecture that’s been rattling against his skull for too long now.

“...Fifteen years old…   _indecent exposure_ …”

(“You just want me to dress like a eunuch all the time.  I’m not _Agape_ , I’m punk rock.”)

“...And on two hours of sleep, too, reckless child!  You could have broken _all your bones_...”

(“Well I didn’t, did I?”)

“...What would your grandfather say?...”

(“He would say nothing because he’s cool, unlike you, geezer.”)

“...Nipples on the front page of the _Izvestia..._ ”

(“Good, I hope the whole nation jerks off to them.”)   

In the end, Lilia has to take Yakov by the arm and steer him back towards the elevator landing.  

“Let him sleep,” she says of their scowling, yawning, unrepentant protege, and as soon as the door slams shut in their faces, they fall quiet as they often do when it’s just the two of them.  Yakov stews in silence and chews the inside of his mouth.  It takes him five full seconds to notice that Lilia has pressed the wrong button, and that the elevator is moving in the opposite direction of their rooms on the seventeenth floor.

"Where are we..."

"You'll see."

 

 

*

 

“This was my idea, so it it will be my treat,” says Lilia from across the high, circular table at the hotel restaurant, her eyes are already on the drinks menu.

“Nonsense,” says Yakov, taking his hat off and setting it on the table, “we’ll bill it to the sponsors.”

When the waiter comes around, Lilia orders a glass of white Cava.  From Tarragona, which the waiter recommends they visit if there’s time for sightseeing tomorrow.  It’s less than an hour away by train, he says, they could easily make a day trip out of it.  “And what will you have, sir?”

Yakov will have a whiskey.  None of the local varieties, just the usual kind.  Neat, please.

And shortly the waiter returns with a tray, and then they’re leaning across the table and clinking their glasses.  The gesture is an afterthought, but the sound it makes - delicate, and distinct in the quiet of the bar at 5pm - is startling to Yakov after years of solitary drinking.   _How long has it been?_ he finds himself wondering. _How long since the last time we went out for drinks?  Not with Mila and Emil, just the two of us._

He has to check himself.  Silence the thought and swallow a mouthful of whiskey instead.  

_Long enough to know that thoughts like this only lead to one place - down the rabbit hole._

“Thanks for this,” Yakov tells Lilia, raising his glass at her, “I feel better already.”

She smiles.  Or, she does her version of a smile- the firm line of her mouth eases a little.  “Personally,” she says mildly, “I don’t think this afternoon was quite the disaster you make it out to be.”

He raises both eyebrows.  “But the nipples-”

“Were inappropriate and a flagrant violation of ISU regulations, yes.  It was a good performance, though, wasn’t it?  Didn’t it make you _feel_ something?”

“Many things.  Horror, fury.  Disgust at the music.  Trepidation at the prospect of finding Nikolai Plisetsky’s name on my phone.”

Again that loosening of her mouth.  Her small but full-lipped mouth.  Rosebud mouth, he used to think of it in the privacy of his own head, though these days, of course, it’s just a mouth to him.  “Well the music wasn’t my cup of tea either,” she says.  “Which makes it all the more impressive that the boy made me _feel_ things, don’t you think?  That - above being technically perfect - is exactly what a performance is meant to do.”

Yakov rolls the whiskey around on his tongue, and the thought around in his head.  He still doesn’t understand.  “ _Feel_ things?”

“Oh I don’t know.”  Lilia ducks her head, suddenly bashful.  “Like I was young again, vicariously through Yuri,” she says.  “ _Cool_ again.  Free in a way I haven’t been in a while.  In love for the first time.”

“He’s not in l-”  Yakov becomes suddenly aware that he’s doing an unwittingly good impression of a drowning frog, but he can’t help himself.  “With whom?”

Lilia arches a perfectly drawn eyebrow as if to say, _really, Yakov?_

“Oh, I am going to _have a word_ with that Otabek Altin boy’s coach,” Yakov fumes.  “Yura was a _good boy_ until Otabek Altin showed up on his motorcycle.  A very, very rude boy, but otherwise good.  Disciplined, somewhat obedient!  He’s too _young to be in love_!”

This time Lilia throws her head back and laughs for what feels like a full minute.  It’s like watching a lightbulb turn on, the way her tight little smile suddenly breaks into this, and he can’t help but stare.  Is she drunk already?  Is _he_ drunk already?

“Yakov.”  Lilia says his name quietly, but he jolts at the sound of it.  When she tilts her head back to drain her glass, the long line of her throat flashes again in the dim lighting of the restaurant.  “If he’s in love,” she says, “I don’t think he can help it.”

Yakov finishes his whiskey and watches the sunset through the restaurant window.  They’re facing East, so he don’t actually get to see the sun sink below the horizon.  There’s just a slow shifting of light and color across the sky, and then it’s night.  

“Hmph,” he says to his empty glass, and wonders if he’ll ever manage to beat Lilia at an argument.

 

*

 

An hour later - or has it been half an hour?  Or forty five minutes?  He forgot to put on his watch while dressing this morning, and…  oh, nevermind, his phone can tell time, eh?  Half an hour, then, and thankfully Nikolai Plisetsky still hasn’t called about Yakov leading his grandson astray.  God, they’ve been drinking _fast._

Half an hour later, she says his name again.

She says it suddenly, midway through drunken hiccups against the back of her hand.  “Yakov, don’t turn around.”  Like she’s about to burst out laughing again, so of course he spins around immediately.

She must be able to read his mind - she must know that his first instinct to sprint out of the restaurant and scream at the two boys who have just waltzed into the hotel lobby.  She seizes his wrist.  

Pinned to the table, Yakov hisses at Lilia instead.  “They’re going to be late for the banquet,” he says.  “It takes Yuri at least an hour to tie a tie, what’s he doing leaving the hotel now?”  

Neither Yuri nor Otabek is dressed for the banquet.  Yuri hasn’t scrubbed the eyeliner off his face - in fact, it looks even thicker than it did before - and is wearing an oversized leather jacket Yakov doesn’t remember seeing on him before.  He’s so wrapped up in conversation that he doesn’t catch Yakov glaring through the restaurant window.

 _At least they aren’t holding hands or anything_ , Yakov thinks, watching the boys saunter across the lobby with the confidence of Hollywood stars.  Like they’re walking down a red carpet or something.   _Lilia might be wrong.  They might not be in love._

And then Otabek reaches out and places his hand on the small of Yuri’s back.

Pre-emptively, Lilia tightens her grip.

Laughing as if at Yakov’s expense, the boys pass through the sliding doors and disappear out of sight and into the streets of Barcelona.

“It’s not safe,” Yakov mutters fretfully, more to himself than to Lilia.  “It’s fine here, but Russia isn’t a safe place for men who like other...”  His voice trails off as he loses track of his own argument.  He smiles helplessly at Lilia.  “I suppose Victor got by, didn’t he?  The boy was right, I’m a geezer.  If Yura is acting his age, then so am I.”

Lilia only releases his wrist and leans back into her seat.  He remembers when her mouth wasn’t pressed so tight.  When she used to laugh all the time, and they would drink together all the time.  He’d bring a bouquet of roses to opening night and she’d carry it around as they hopped around from bar to bar.  

His wrist feels warm where she touched it.

 

*

 

They decide against a third round of drinks but order them anyway when the waiter comes around.  There’s a citrusy cocktail on the menu that caught Lilia’s eye earlier, and Yakov gets his usual.  Whiskey, neat.

In retrospect, their drink choices are a sign of the deep incompatibility that drove them apart.  As are their diverging opinions on Yuri’s exhibition skate, and his new relationship, and Otabek Altin’s (definitely ridiculous) hair…  

But tonight, as at the beginning, these differences are charming.  Yakov imagines Lilia clutching roses to her chest.  Her hair hanging loose, tumbling down to her waist like a waterfall.

 

*

 

“When we were young,” says Yakov musingly, “a wild time meant getting your hands on a bottle of pepsi.  Or spotting an American on the streets.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Lilia.  “I had Americans in the sheets.”

He’s doing his drowning frog impression again, isn’t he?  It’s strange to be able to make her laugh.  He thought he’d lost that ability forever.

 

*

 

She’s watching him from across the table with her chin on her hands.  

“What are you thinking about?”

“Your whiskey,” she says, shutting her eyes.  “It’s almost the same color your hair used to be.”

This time he’s the one who reaches for her hand.

 

*

 

It isn’t the way he remembers it.

The green in her eyes is different through the cateracts.

The skin of her breasts is coarse against his mouth.

And at some point, the black in her hair disappears.  Here, between his fingers, where the dye ends above the roots.

But some things, Yakov realizes, haven’t changed.  There’s still softness - in her palms as she coaxes him into life, in the fragrant curtain of hair falling between them and the rest of the world.  

And the orgasm, too - the orgasm still feels the same.

 

*

 

In the end, Yakov is late to the banquet.  He has to stop at his room to wash up and change, and then he stands alone outside and smokes a cigarette.  Two cigarettes.  When finally he walks through the double doors of the banquet hall, Lilia is already there.  Mingling.

She doesn’t see him because her back is turned.

And then he looks away.  There’s a sea of faces all around him, flushed, smiling faces making the room warm with all their breath and their noise, and he scans it for his people.  Locates Victor immediately, and even though Victor is technically no longer his, he can’t help but take an interest in Victor’s affairs.  Currently these affairs seem to be comprised of a valiant effort to get Katsuki Yuuri and Chris Giacometti to bond.

 _How do people do that?_ Yakov wonders.   _Stay strictly platonic friends with their exes?  Maybe I should ask Victor for tips._

But he doesn’t have time to entertain the thought.  Someone taps on his shoulder, and a sour voice says “Hello” from behind him.

Yakov turns around.

It’s Yuri.  Arms crossed, glaring at Yakov with residual anger.  “You’re late,” he says.

Yakov gives the boy the once-over.  A glass in his hand - it’s either water, or enough vodka to hospitalize a horse - no eyeliner, no leather jacket.  A tie that even by Yakov’s standards is… immaculate.  

“Mila helped with the makeup, and Beka with the tie,” says Yuri by way of explanation, as if reading his mind.

 _Beka_.  Yakov’s chest constricts.   _Beka already._   

 _You’re too young, it isn’t safe_ , he wants to say. _You’ve only known him four days, and first love never works out.  It never lasts.  Look at me, I’m living proof of that._

But all these thoughts, they’re variations on a central theme:   _I worry about you because I don’t want you to get hurt.  I love you.  I love you so much._

He clears his throat.  “You look good, Yura,” he says, more gruffly, more grudgingly than he intends.  And then, “Will you introduce me to Otabek?  Properly, I mean.  He obviously knows who I am and vice versa.”

Yuri’s eyes immediately narrow into slits.  “Why?”

“I never got the chance to thank him for helping out with your exhibition skate,” says Yakov.  “Or to tell him that I liked your choreography.”

“We worked on it together,” Yuri says proudly.  Then, all of a sudden, he’s scowling again.  “You’re not going to embarrass me in front of him, are you?   You’re not going to say anything mean, or anything about nipples?”

Yakov sighs.  He forgot about the nipples...  But all he says is, “No, I’m not.”

Yuri glares and taps his foot as he thinks.  “Fine,” he says eventually.  “Let’s go find Beka.”

“Fine,” says Yakov, and follows him into the crowd.


End file.
